Wonderland

by Joanna Nadin

  “Wanna dance?” Someone grabs my hand.

  And I don’t care whose it is. I just let them take me. Take me somewhere. Anywhere.

  I WAKE up in my bed, my legs wound around Stella’s. She is asleep, mouth open, her breath stale with last night’s smoke. Sickly smell of aniseed hanging over her. Still wearing the Westwood dress and cowboy boots. I am in my bra and knickers, the Gaultier crumpled in a heap on the floor. I can see a tear in the back. I look at the clock and groan. It reads 4:00 p.m. I can’t remember getting home. God. Why do I do it? Still, at least I made it back. At least I’m not on Ed’s floor again.

  I need to pee. I untangle my legs and sit up. Dizziness sweeps over me. I lean forward, head in my hands. Stella turns over and pulls the covers tighter around herself.

  I lower my feet to the floor, walk shakily to the bathroom, sit down on the cool white of the toilet seat. The pee stings me. I realize my whole body hurts. There are bruises on my legs. Bruises I don’t remember getting.

  I flush the toilet and walk quickly back to my bedroom. Climb back into bed.

  Stella lifts her head. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Who’d you think it was?”

  “Dunno. No one.” She lets her head drop and closes her eyes again.

  I want to ask her about the bruises. If she knows. But she won’t. She wasn’t around.

  “Where’d you go last night?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You disappeared. Remember?”

  She smiles. “Oh, yeah.”

  “So?”

  “Do we have to do this now? I don’t feel well.” She pulls the cover over her head. Turns her back.

  And then it’s not me I’m worrying about anymore. It’s her. What she’s done.

  “Stella.” I feel panic rising up in me like stomach acid.

  Silence.

  “Come on, Stell. What did you do?”

  She rolls onto her back, pulls down the cover, and stares at the ceiling. “Well, put it this way. We got back at Emily Applegate.”

  And I never believed it when I read it in books. That it could really happen. But I swear, right then, my heart missed a beat. I force the words out. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  And I am there. See her touching him. See him push her dress up. Hear him beg. Please. Oh, God. Eyes closed. Her watching him the whole time. Smiling. Not even caring what it means. I feel sick.

  “Blair? You let him . . . Why?”

  “You know why.”

  So he found what he really wanted. Her. And even though I don’t want him, something inside me is bruised now, hurt. Because he wanted her more.

  “Where?” I say quietly.

  “Matt’s room.”

  “Where was Emily?”

  “Passed out in the garden. She and Dawce were on pills.”

  I feel the sickness turn to fear. Anger. “At least tell me you used something.”

  “What’s it to you?” Stella is groping around for her cigarettes now. Agitated.

  I flinch. “Nothing.” But it is so not nothing. I remember Blair at the fridge, touching me with the bottle. The way he looked. The way he spoke. Like he could have anyone. “He tried it on with me, you know.”

  “Yeah, right.” She lights up.

  “He did,” I insist. “But I had the sense to tell him where to go.”

  She laughs as she blows out smoke. “You’re just jealous. Because you’re not me. Because you’re a virgin. And you always will be. Unless you let Fat Ed do it out of sympathy —”

  “Shut up,” I say slowly.

  But she doesn’t listen. “Christ, Jude. You’re so uptight, you couldn’t even do your own audition. It’s pathetic. You’re nothing. And you have the bloody gall to criticize me.”

  I don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear what I am. I snap. “Get out!” I yell. “Just get out!”

  “Jesus, Jude. What’s the matter?”

  “I hate you. I hate you.” I kick and thrash my arms to get her away from me.

  Then Dad is in the room and he’s shouting at me to calm down. I’m thinking, Shit, Stella’s still here, my head thumping with the drink and the smoke. Dad snatches the cigarette and throws it out of the window. Then he’s holding me down. Begging me to stop. And she leaves. Leaves me to him. I start to cry, great heaving sobs. And I cry until there are no tears left.

  Dad stares at an invisible speck on the wall, like he can’t even bear to look at me.

  “What time did you come in last night?” he says to the speck.

  “I don’t know,” I say. Truth.

  “Four,” he says. “Four in the morning, Jude.”

  “Why’d you ask if you knew?”

  He shakes his head at the speck. “Aren’t you even going to say sorry?”

  “For what? Having a few drinks? Big deal,” I sneer.

  “It is a big deal, actually.” He looks at me finally. I see disgust in his face. And something else. Fear. “It’s not just the drinking, Jude.”

  “What, then?”

  “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

  I shrug. “I guess so.”

  “The coming in late, the smoking.”

  “That wasn’t me,” I protest.

  “Jude.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  He looks at the speck again, his fists clenched. “I can’t do this, Jude. I don’t know who you are these days.”

  “I’m me . . . I’m still me. Christ. Just because I’m not Daddy’s little girl anymore.”

  He shakes his head. Speaks quietly. “You never were.”

  I was hers. Always hers. It was Mum I went to when I fell over, or fell out with anybody. Mum who shared my secrets.

  “Tell me what to do,” he says. But I don’t know who he’s talking to now. Me or her.

  “Nothing,” I say eventually. “You do nothing.”

  “I want you to see someone. Talk to someone.”

  “A shrink? You’ve got to be kidding me. What’s she going to say? ‘Tell me about your childhood’? So I can just blame it all on my mother.”

  I stop, cover my mouth. Because I know I’ve gone too far.

  I see it in his eyes. The built-up frustration. The fear. He lets it out. Hitting me across my cheek, his hand smacking against my jawbone. And then I’m crying again. Railing. Against him. Against my life. Against everything.

  “When will you get it?” I yell. “I’m not her. I’m nothing like her. I bloody wish I were. But I’m not. I’m Jude . . . I’m Jude.”

  And he’s crying too. Part of me just wants him to hold me tight. Like I’ve cut my knee or fallen off a swing. But we both know we’re past that. Or we were never there at all. So I take the easy route and walk out the door. Exit heroine, stage right. No applause.

  I GO where I always go. Up to the Point. Don’t want to deal with last night’s fallout, the casualties down in the dunes. Emily and the Plastics nursing bottles of Evian. Blair acting like nothing happened. God knows where Stella is. I don’t want to see her.

  I eat two bags of crisps and down a carton of OJ. Nicked from the shop. The juice is warm and the acid hurts my throat and stomach, a ball of pain reminding me of last night’s excess. As if I need reminding.

  I look out into the open water. Sun sparkling on the deep blue, waves studded with white flecks. Whitecaps trying to reach the shore. I love the sea. Its smell, the sting of salt spray, the sound. Blocking out everything. Bigger than anything we can make.

  I remember the sound of London. The drone of cars and sirens and the heavy beat of reggae and hip-hop. The noise of people blocking out nature. No sea there to swallow it up. And the smell. Hot tar and takeaway food and sweat and exhaust fumes. A disgusting soup of human nature. But beautiful and beguiling too.

  Then I remember Stella’s words. “You’re nothing. Nothing without me.” And London, my life less ordinary, fades, and all I can see is the endless sea, stretching out, en
gulfing me, drowning me.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The voice is as familiar to me as Dad’s or Alfie’s. I don’t need to turn around. But I do. Ed is standing behind me, hands shielding his eyes from the sun, curls blowing into his face in the warm air.

  I look away again. “What is?”

  “The sea.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that.” I start poking a stick into the sandy soil, wondering why he’s always there when I need him. “Did you know I was going to be here?” I say.

  “I tried the house,” he replies. “Your dad said you’d had a fight.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. Because I know why he told him. Reliable Ed. He’ll sort me out. Persuade me to give up the drink and the cigarettes and the bad, bad company. Whoever it is.

  He sits next to me. Touches my arm. I pull away.

  “I told you I don’t need checking up on.”

  “I’m not checking up on you, Jude.” He stops, looking for the words. “I . . . I just wanted to see you. We used to hang out every day. Now you never call. And when I do see you, half the time you shout at me. Or ignore me. And I know I sound like a cheesy film or something, but, Jude, I don’t know what else to say.”

  I shrug. I know it’s true. But I don’t know what to say to make it right again. For a second I think about “sorry.” But it won’t come out.

  Ed keeps digging. “So, what was last night about? You and Blair?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Whatever.” He pauses. “You know he’ll never dump Emily.”

  “Like I care. I told you, nothing happened. Whatever you saw — whoever you saw — it wasn’t me. Jesus. As if. You know I wouldn’t go near him. And like he’d come anywhere near me, anyway.” Tears prick my eyes.

  “Hey, Jude.” He nudges me. “I’m sorry. I just thought —”

  “Well, you thought wrong.” I am crying now. Can’t stop. Where do they all come from? The tears. I remember a fact that Alfie told me. How many liters of tears are cried in England every day. Something like a hundred thousand. I feel like they’re all mine.

  “Hey, hey. It’s OK.”

  “No, it’s not.” My breath is labored. Gasping.

  Ed reaches for my hand. I let him take it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the party?” I ask.

  “I didn’t see you,” he says.

  I shake my head. “You could have called. Come over. Or, what, you’ve forgotten my number? Where I live?”

  He lets my hand drop. Pushes his hair back. Pulls at a thread on his T-shirt. I wait.

  “OK, truth. I wanted to. But . . . sometimes you scare me, Jude.”

  “Sometimes I scare myself,” I whisper.

  He looks away. My stomach turns again. At what I’ve done to me. To him. Then I say it. That word. “Sorry. I’m sorry . . .” I start to shake as the sobbing starts up again. And then he’s holding me, stroking my hair, like she used to. Calming me down.

  The crying peters out and my breathing slows. But he doesn’t stop. And I don’t want him to. I can feel his breath hot on my neck. The hand pressed hard on my waist starting to move. Touching my back. Then everything goes slow and I know what’s going to happen, seen it so many times in films. But never to me. Not until now. I move my head and look up. He’s looking down at me. Into me. Like he’s asking me if it’s OK. If I want to. And I do. God, I do. Then he’s kissing me, his lips soft, tugging at mine, his tongue sweet vanilla and salt, and I swear it’s the best thing I have ever tasted. He pulls away and looks at me.

  I am scared he’s thinking he’s made a mistake and is going to walk away. “What’s wrong?” I am breathing hard.

  “Do you . . . ? Are you . . . ?”

  But I don’t say anything. I pull him back to me and kiss him this time. Harder. My hands riding up under his T-shirt. Touching his chest. And I feel a surge of want. Feel him against me. He moans and pushes into me. I glance toward the village. There is no one at the Point but us. No one to stop us. I pull Ed’s T-shirt up, over his head. And I look at this body I’ve grown up with, seen a thousand times. But never like this. I take his belt buckle in my fingers.

  “Jude?”

  He touches my face. Wants to know if I am OK. I kiss his hand and pull the belt undone. I want this.

  Then he’s pushing my skirt up. His fingers reaching for me. And part of me is scared. Because it’s Ed. Because it’s me. Because this is what Stella would do. Except it doesn’t feel sleazy, like with her and Blair. Or Hughsie. It feels right. I’m not standing on the outside, looking in. I’m here. It’s happening to me. There is no sound of the sea. No wind. Nothing. I am just inside my head. Reduced to a feeling.

  “Have you got anything?”

  Ed opens his eyes, nods. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a foil-wrapped packet. I smile. Not caring that it might have been meant for someone else. Not caring that he might have done it before. Just glad it’s there.

  He looks at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” And I kiss him again.

  And I think, I love you. I love you.

  “I love you.” Ed is holding me, our bodies entangled. He kisses my forehead and pushes my hair back so he can see me clearly. “I always have, Jude.”

  “I love you too.” The words sound odd, spoken aloud. Words I’ve said to no one for so long.

  “Now we really do sound like a film.”

  I laugh. He pulls me tight, and we stay like that until the evening air turns our skin to goose bumps, until we remember where we are, where I have to go. To face Dad. To mumble sorry, and wait for him to do the same.

  I sit up, shivering. Pull my clothes on. I watch Ed, his back to me as he gets dressed, red marks where I have grasped him. On my back, too, where it has been pushed into stones on the ground under me. He turns and smiles, and I smile back, at the weirdness, and the rightness, of it all.

  He walks me home. We don’t say anything. Don’t need to. Outside the shop he pulls me to him and kisses me. I feel myself disappearing again. The streetlights, the pub, all gone. But I know we can’t. Not here. And not inside either. Not tonight. I drop my head and drink in the smell of him. He kisses my hair.

  Then he’s walking away up the hill, his eyes still on me. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

  I smile. “Not if I see you first.”

  He grins. And is gone.

  Dad is slumped at the table. There’s no bottle this time, but I smell it on him. The bittersweet tang of whiskey. But I have my secret too. I am drunk on Ed. On the beauty of him. Of us.

  He stands, scraping the chair across the floor. “Jude, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” It’s a whisper, my eyes on the floor.

  “I don’t know why I . . .” He trails off.

  Then this feeling fills the silence. This possibility. That he will open his arms and reach out to me.

  I look up, hopeful. But his arms hang by his sides. Closed.

  It’s gone. And I want to get away from him now. Back to my room. To my secret.

  I force a smile. “’Night, Dad.”

  “’Night.”

  I lie on my bed. The curtains are still open, letting in the moon and stars, dappling my skin.

  Alfie crawls in and burrows under the covers next to me.

  “Where did you go?” he asks.

  “Just out, Alfie.”

  “With Stella?” he asks.

  I start. “No.” Then softer, “We had a fight.”

  “Like with Dad?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you want her to come back?”

  In my head, I look out across the village. See the moon bounce off the slate of his roof. Imagine Ed lying there, his body still alive with me. And in that moment I know who I want. And who I want to be. And neither one is her. “No.” I smile. “Not anymore.”

  But Stella has other ideas.

  OF COURSE she comes back. She made a promise.

  Ed has just left, gone to p
ick his brother up from the station. I am lying on my bed, my body still buzzing with the feel of him. I can’t believe there was a time when we weren’t like this, when we were nothing but friends. Not even that sometimes. Can’t believe he’s going away soon. It’s been weeks and there’s still no letter from the Lab. But I don’t think about it when he’s here. Don’t think about anything. Because he makes me happy. I make me happy.

  I hear someone on the stairs. Alfie, I think, wanting to go to the beach. Or to tell me that tomatoes are actually a fruit. But when I open the door, she’s standing there in the Westwood dress, ripped now, Converse low-rises on her feet, dog tags around her neck. In case she gets lost. How Stella.

  I don’t know what to say. What I want to say.

  “So, can I come in?” She tilts her head to one side. “If you’re nice, I’ll let you buy me a Slushie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just, you know.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  She walks past me and sits on the bed.

  “Suits you.”

  I shut the door.

  “What does?”

  “Sex.” She relishes the word.

  “How can sex suit someone?”

  “I don’t know.” She tuts. “It just does. You look better. Less Pollyanna.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I throw her my best fake smile.

  “Don’t mention it.” She picks up a CD. Throws it down. “So. You and Ed?”

  I don’t say anything. Not sure if I want to tell her. Knowing she’ll want details. Things that are just ours. But she knows anyway.

  “I’m pleased,” she announces. “Seriously. So much better than Blair.”

  “Not hard,” I say.

  “God, get over it, Jude.”

  “I am. Anyway, not my problem.”

  Stella shrugs. “I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.”

  I start. Something Mum used to say. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I don’t know. A film or something. Anyway, it’s deep. And totally true.” She grabs my cigarettes off the desk and takes one. Lights it up. Then throws the lighter and packet over to me. Ed wants me to stop. I know I should. Don’t know why I ever started.